


I Walk Into The Room Dripping In Gold

by nachttour



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Frottage, Genderfluid Character, Incest, M/M, Post-Sburb, dresskink, mastrubation, transvestism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nachttour/pseuds/nachttour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave has a McQueen Knockoff, a complex amount of emotional issues regarding his brother and nothing but swagger. After a night at the club, he and Bro head home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Walk Into The Room Dripping In Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeHaveNone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeHaveNone/gifts).



TG: i may or may not have just sold my left nut for a knockoff McQueen.

TT: Tell me more about the sale of your singular testicle.

TG: i was on ebay and someone was selling this dress

TG: and fuck me if it wasn't perfect for dirks thing.

TG: you know the thing right

TT: I do know the thing? At the overly pretentious club in midtown?

TG: yeah

TG: that's the one

TG: with clove smoke thick enough to choke you at six feet from the door

TT: Pray tell me what it is that has prompted your participation in this event?

TG: you know

TG: even if you didnt know you would make some crazyass suggestion as to what you think you know

TG: but you really do know

TT: I suppose I do.

TT: Irony.

TG: irony

TG: the foundation of every strider's sense of self and style.

TT: …

TT: You cannot see it but my eyes are orbiting like planets around a star.

TT: You will need alterations.

TG: is that even a question

TT: It is more of a statement. Kanaya and I are free. You have a week before 'The Thing'. Will your dress arrive in sufficient time to make you stunning?

TG: …

TG: i may or may not have purchased a lot

TG: because there were two red ones and i am indecisive as fuck

TG: so

TG: its more like

TG: dresses

TG: dresses that need alterations and i happen to know these two super fine super cultured gorgeous lesbians who love fabric

TT: You are right at least in a few of those points. Though I would make the argument that my better half is the one that loves fabric.

TT: Answer my question. When are you getting the dresses in?

TG: day after tomorrow got some express shipping on that shit

TG: i know it takes time to work the magic

TG: so you will do it right the altering stuff

TT: I think that a few days will be time enough to make the necessary alterations. You realize that you will need to spend some extra time with us.

TG: i can hang

TG: want me to bring anything

TT: Now the most pressing question presents itself.

TT: Did you get matching shoes?

*

The prospect of spending time with Kanaya and Rose is icing on the cake that is Dave's awesome week. Work has been bountiful – this is due in part to his increasing prowess as a DJ and more owed to his personal divine intervention. Even if they knew, no one could fault him for knowing the right time to call about jobs. Nor could they say anything about his sense of the perfect moment to walk into a joint and happen to bump into the boss to chat. Laying on the charm is a skill born of long practice.

It is one of the multitude of wonders offered to him by godhood.

Even with the certainty of immortality, the thought of one more personal corpse party makes him wake up in cold sweat. Tangled up in sheets and sitting like some sweaty kid with night terrors in a penthouse level apartment he'll religiously check every site of a fatal injury. He never encountered blood or anything more interesting than raised scar tissue.  Often, it is in those moments that he'll find dying-ember glowing orange reflected back in the mirror across the room. There was only room for one Dave beyond the doorway that was the successful completion of their game. So in the tradition of his family and friends he yanked Davesprite through with him, just to see how it would go.

For once in their collective lives things went well.

They are one. Sometimes he smacks the arm he is not missing into things. There are times where he can see his irises shimmering and smoldering behind his lenses, and his thoughts stray into the arcane language of the game. It's a little like being possessed – having lived double and triple lives between their collective paradox clones and Davesprite's experience. He understands having loved Jade and the bone-grinding pain of losing John early; and of looking into Rose's eyes and knowing that he left her all alone. He remembers flying through stars without the nuisance of having to breathe and of meeting Dirk for the first time.

God it was disappointing.

Just like Bro was disappointing and amazing in turns.

He is not the only person sandwiched into two people.

His ex-guardian lives downstairs on another floor-encompassing suite. They dueled for rights to the top floor and for once in his life he came out on top. Seeing Bro with a sword at his throat Dave could not rightly say which one of them had been more surprised.

Dirk-in-Bro's-Body with all of the wrong mannerisms and a weird cadence to his step had shrugged the loss off and headed downstairs. Sometimes they are so alike. He has the same lazy sprawl. He can see Bro when his fingers lightly rest on his belt buckle as he fucks around on his computer. When he types one handed on the couch with the other hand holding open technical manuals or other odds and ends. There are other times though when the difference could not be more stark. Dirk is hyper-aware of his surroundings. Dave can feel the weight of his eyes when he comes down for an orange soda and hilariously outdated gaming. His Bro had not suffered him to be around when in the same room. And Dirk stays up forever, the lights from his workshop are on at all hours.

This person is a source of morbid fascination to him. He is the man that he has desired to be for years. Bro is the platonic ideal of everything that constitutes a fun-adult: self-assured, stoic, powerful and the pinnacle in ironic achievement. To be that cool, and that disaffected had been the basis for many a daydream.

The wild thought crossed his mind from time to time that he would be just like Bro: so uninvolved and aloof that it acted as a form of meditation. If he ever had a kid (hell forbid), he would raise them just like Bro did-- Darwinian parenting to the extreme. He would train them vigorously and mercilessly only to reward them with the best snacks and no bedtime.

Only the game did have something to say about that. If he had a kid he would disappear like a douchebag piece of shit to duel juggalos on the roof of the White House. While that is the most epic legacy that he personally could have offered anyone, parenting is it not. Cool, is it even less. All he bequeathed Dirk in his iteration of the game was gaping, yawning and absolute loneliness. That inheritance made strange bedfellows with the CPS-summoning antics of their Austin apartment.  At least he thinks that his guardian had an excuse. The more he considers it, the more he thinks that the Cals may have had something to do with his life prior-to-Sburb.

Sometimes, instead of smuppets and death traps it would have been cool just to hang out on the couch like normal humans. Or rent a DVD. Or...

Or, maybe, and what-if are all the considerations of lesser beings and he has no time for them.

Only he does.

Given the glut of time, Dave has considered what he did want as a younger, less advanced Strider.

Dave 1.0.

What version 1.0 wanted more than anything was validity. The only way to gain it seemed to have been to beat the master. If he could beat the surly, ironic, and oft-absent guardian of his then he would be the most real of the Real Boys. Instead of feeling like a puppet-child dancing to a tune and often forgotten after being thrown behind the couch.

Thinking of Bro being that aloofly mysterious put a rose tint to the alternative of his guardian being an abusive-sadist or mind-controlled by a ventriloquist’s dummy. The later was depressing while the former was infuriating. There is no way to beat the master anymore. Bro one-upped him in everything: puzzles, swords, irony, and then heroic death. In doing that he ensured that Dave would never unravel or solve him.

Dave had desperately wanted to set traps and puzzles, to wind a labyrinth around his guardian and pull him in and close. Once he had him there he would point casually to the hundreds of paradox iterations of himself and offer them up in a pile. He is just as fearless, and he is just as brave as Bro had been. Meteors ain't got shit on Dave Strider.

Now that he was older he could admit that what he might do. He would draw him in close, press his hands against the planes of Dirk's stomach and wind his arms around his tapered waist-- now starting to ease outward again as age bore down on him. He would lay his head against his shoulder and rest his lips over the arteries in his neck, timing the blood sliding through his veins and investigating the scar that his guardian never had. It was a single, thin line that went around the entirety of his neck and echoed the shape of the collar of his ubiquitous white tee-shirt. In mapping him with his fingertips – Dave might derive a clearer picture of what it is that he was missing. A real person might resolve instead of a concept in a cartoon outline of a family member.

If he could understand Dirk then he could own Dirk. They could be a unit, something would be better. Something might ease up inside of him and he could let go of the obsession. 

Maybe. 

That particular tangent went deeper than the Marriannas trench and was about as clear. Considering offered zero illumination. However, his rad alien lady-buddy did.

Twilight is settling when they arrive, hauling a sewing machine and other junk that presumably forms garments of quality. Rose has procured a case of ginger-ale, and had other overly-priced soft-drinks tucked under the opposite arm. These are guaranteed to get Kanaya hilariously giggly because she cannot handle her sugar. The former is dressed impeccably and looking like a runway model towering a foot over his ecto-sib. She has a bottle of sparkling cider tucked under an arm, and he might love her just a little extra for that singular gesture.

There is an unspoken agreement among the survivors of the meteor about adult beverages. At sixteen and terrified out of his mind Dave had not possessed the words to articulate what it was that he felt about Rose's drinking. Now they are older and better, if not arguably wiser. Boundaries have been established. Drinking commences only on certain days and times. Or after a death in the family, as is custom handed down through television and film.

The ladies set up shop on one of his big tables and he tries not to let his ears burn. Having bought beautiful clothing for the lulz is one thing –  committing to having it fitted is another. Kanaya lays out her supplies like a soldier lays out elements of disassembled weaponry-- careful and precise to muscle memory. A measuring tape hangs loose around her neck, Alternian numerals bizarrely legible to Dave's sprite-enhanced brain.

Cradling a cup of tea between her palms, Rose watches him like one of the many cats that infest Roxy's laboratory. “You sure you are ready for this?”

“You ever met something that I wasn't ready for? I arrived in a flaming shower of preparedness for any and all events.”

Kanaya holds up a finger for silence. “Dave I would like to see the garments in question please.”

Well then. There is no beating around the topiary embellishments. Unearthing several boxes Dave carefully pulls them into the light and lays them out for her. There is one with a raven motif and voluminous black tulle supporting the skirt and tail feathers of the birds. There is a sister garment made mostly of feathers with plastic scales covering the bodice and running down to meet the feathers. The dress clicks and shines, demanding attention in its mishmash of texture. That skirt is made almost entirely of dyed feathers-- probably ostrich. It will be heinous to fit for him but it is within the realm of possibility. Kanaya observes them both – apex predator considering the herd.

“The waist on the one with the flapbeasts will suit you better-- it will imply curves that you lack. The iconography is pertinent. The one with the feathers seems more flirty. How do you feel about showing off your hips?” Dave likes that she strokes her fingers along the scales as she speaks with him about the dresses. They have the same ideas. Her nails make a most pleasurable sound against the scales. Maybe she petted her terrifying lusus like that, slowly drawing her claws up and down the topography of the shapes and letting them settle briefly into the grooves with a ‘click-click-click’.

“Honestly, I'm going to be a striking blonde in a dress either way aren't I?” Asking redundant questions allows him to stall from getting into the garments. This is not a major step in the process that has been addressed. The reality and immediacy of it is making him feel a bit warm. Given that Heat is now an intrinsic part of his nature, perhaps it is to be expected.

“Breathtaking, I would venture.”

Rose watches him in a way that makes his skin feel tight. It is fair turnabout given how often he has watched them, as well. Their thighs pressed together at the hip, Rose's dark nails tracing over the translucent luminescence of Kanaya's forearms while they talk about patterns and interior design. As one might expect, Kanaya has an excellent sense of space.

What he notices most though, other than the trapped starlight of Kanaya, or the vaguely menacing presence of Rose is the way that fabric folds and dips over their bodies. He loves the gathering of Kanaya's skirts, and the swish and drape of Rose's. It is not so much the shape of them that he craves, but the slip and slide of fabric over his hips and pooling around his ankles. It would be a deep delight to hear the shift and whisper of silk move with him as he does. It is different in dresses than in menswear. Certainly, he spent enough time in tuxedos and suits on LOHAC to tell the difference.

He has not told them yet, but he's paired each of the red dresses with matching accoutrement. Carefully selected hand-held clutches with jeweled clasps– big enough for a condom and some lipstick, and paired shoes. It was a bit of a challenge finding heels that would fit him; but, the internet will provide if asked and subsequently offered sums of money. Working the stock exchange of Heat and Clockwork prepared him well enough for real-time trading. Not having to sleep does also help.

The shoes to match the raven-dress are breathtaking: dyed blood red leather and overlaid in delicate burgundy lace. The shoes to match the plastic dress have been carefully accented with crystals and tiny rhinestones. They are peep-toes and if he goes with them there will have to be a mani-pedi before the event. This might have to be a thing anyway – he can invite Karkat and read gossip magazines.

On the night before the event he's getting everything waxed. Little manscaping done to the brows, get the little whispers of back and chest hair out of the way and legs kissably smooth. He is a blonde and these things do not matter to the casual observer but they must be attended to. Looking like a woman is not his aim. Rather, he would like to look best in the clothes that he has chosen. They happen to pair the best with long, nude and sheer stockings and shoes that could pay off a mortgage.

“Dave.”

“Mmm?” Redirecting his attention to his bemused ecto-sibling he smiles. “'sup?”

“Go put on your favorite dress. I need to see how it hangs. Once we have done that I will need you to get into it inside-out please.”

“Oh. Yeah. Kay.” The inside-out baffles him for a second until he remembers that Kanaya will be pinning and adjusting. Things have to go on inside out so she can address seams and note what needs to be taken out, if necessary. They really are heroes. Theoretically he could have alchemized garments; but they would not have fit right. Tailoring makes all the difference.

“Do you, y'know, want me to put shoes on?” 

There is a predatory gleam in Kanaya's eyes. “Yes. I would like for you to please wear your accompanying footwear. It is important to me that I make the correct length and hem allowances.”

Escaping back into his bedroom he steals a moment to savor and breathe. The raven dress that Kanaya picked gets draped over a chair. There is the whole ensemble to consider: stockings, lacy underwear and a slender little garter belt. Happily both skirts are full and nothing potentially blackmail-worthy will show, regardless of which he decides on. Sliding out of his boxers he palms himself just for a second. The whole process is exciting. The Davinator is definitely into it with him. Having the pants-python raging in the club is not the aesthetic he is aiming for. Maybe if this becomes a recurrent thing, there will be other dresses that are a bit more fitted.

Setting on the edge of the bed, he slides his stockings up his knees, smoothing them out and snapping the elastic around his thighs. Not too bad, though his legs will look better with the heels. Everyone looks better in heels. Easing the garter belt up over his hips he smooths the lacy little straps down, pressing his hands over them and wishing that the pressure of his fingertips was that of someone else. They are a faceless someone, this suitor; but, they approve of his beautiful clothing as much as he does.

If he had his way they would slide down to their knees, kissing down along his spine, sliding their hands along his ribs and waist. It would only take a moment for them to ease their hands forward, exploring the topography of his hips before he would turn and press their face to his groin and watch the smile on their face as they worshiped the lace-bound glory of him. He might deign to smooth a hand through their hair, fuck it up a little. Maybe fist a hand into it before they slid him into their mouth. Fuck. Snapping his eyes open he tried to get a grip. His sister and her girlfriend were out in his living room, he was sitting on his bed with a raging hard-on and the silkiest cloth he had ever felt in his life encasing his legs. Rubbing his knees briefly along one another and enjoying the sound of the material against itself the answer was clear.

Time on the meteor had taught them all how to masturbate quietly. Digging his heels into the comforter of the bed he found a comfortable position for his legs, coiling in on himself. Taking his dick in hand he massaged upward, touching himself with firm, quick tugs. This would be a thousand times better if he had time to bust out the KY, but the ladies would be curious enough as it was. That was part of the excitement. Stifling any sort of sound at all was excruciating, little pants and grunts fighting to make their way out from behind his teeth. Looking left he was treated to the long line of his legs, garters slightly askew. He worked himself faster, imagining what it would sound like if someone snapped one against his leg, or how the tension would feel around his waist if there were the pressure of another body along his hips. Rubbing his thumb along the slit of his cock, he shuddered hard. Precome slicked itself along his fingers and made the job a bit easier. The next time that he did this he would be more ambiguous. Pinks and reds along his eyes to compliment the dress, black underwear that was intriguingly semi-transparent. Spreading his knees wide he watched himself in the mirror, flushed and so hard that it felt like holding his heartbeat in his hand. The quickest way to get off was fast and hard, and he worked himself punishingly, breathing through his nose and trying not to rustle around too much.

Orgasm was quick. Tensing throughout his abs and letting himself breathe out in a slow hiss, Dave preened for a moment in the mirror. There was something fucking powerful about pleasure. He liked holding his breath while he came, and the release of pressure and tension directly thereafter. Unfortunately the lazy, comfy feeling was directly contradicted by the messy fingers and the need to make sure his stockings remained clean. Sticking his legs up and hooking them at the ankle like the world's skinniest pinup he inspected them. Stockings: check. Hands were the next priority. Checking the clock he found that it had been six fifty-seven for the entirety of the time he had been in the room.

Casual deity problems.

Heading into the bathroom and washing up quickly he eased himself into his new underwear resolutely. They were pretty and silky and lacy in all the right places. It was probably a better idea to get that orgasm out of the way when he had. After some thought he wrapped the little waist-cincher around himself, pulling and tying himself in so that there was a whisper of a curve to his torso. Feeling well-contained and fancy he stepped into the dress, wiggling and jumping a bit to get the zipper up. Turning the garment around apparently was the answer to this mystery. It sort of ruined the elegant air he was going for, but the moment truly was his to use how he wished. Adjusting things a little it was time to be brave and look at himself.

There was the danger of seeing some skinny dude in a dress. Instead he saw a bitching blonde with ember-bright eyes stuck behind some sicknasty shades, looking like runway and sex. Thanks yes that was more like it. The freckles on his shoulders looked like kisses and the ravens were perfect, their beaks pointing up toward his neck like directions on his dress where to kiss. Biting his lip in pleasure, he slipped the heels on. Teetering a bit he held onto the counter. Balancing would take a little practice; but there was time. He had been practicing a little bit with strappy wedges and skinny jeans on the weekends when he felt like drinking alone. The spike-heels on these shoes were throwing the training wheels right off of that shit.

Forcibly releasing time like another held-breath he sped the clock forward a couple of minutes. It would look weird if he walked in and out of his room in a blink. Instead, a natural amount of time rolled forward on his LED screen and he stopped, feeling the fuzz and static around him settle into something effortless. Being in time was like floating with the current of a river-- you were not pushing against or with, simply being present.

Making his way carefully into the front room the girls watched him like they understood everything. Kanaya remained stationary with a sketchbook under her fingers, quietly assessing. Rose clapped her hands in front of her mouth, grinning from ear-to-ear. “It's perfect.”

“There is the other one...”

“It's. Perfect.”

*

The dress, when altered, was perfect. The other feathery red dress would keep for another occasion of merit. Laying draped over the couch and watching Kanaya snip and trim and adjust carefully, picking her claws along the seams of his garment, he bumped shoulders with Rose. “You would tell me right? I mean... like if I looked... I dunno. Not good?”

Shifting her glance to him, Rose smile. “You mean would I tell you if you looked like a buffoon? Yes. Actually. I won't let you step out into public looking anything less than lovely. You have the hyphenated Strider-Lalonde legacy to uphold.”

A good thing to know. Rose always had a sharp sense of humor, but it never paired with cruelty. “You planning on showing up to the thing?”

“We are planning to attend the gathering, yes. Dirk-Bro is good at making music. The sorts of things that he plays are not offensive to the aurals, even if they are strange.”

Kanaya was the one to respond, drumming her fingers lightly along the curve of Rose's lower back. Having the translation spell from the game omnipresent in their lives was handy. Sometimes though, troll-grammar was special in the way that only Alternian things could be. It had different layers, depending on blood-caste and situation. Sometimes one might end up with double-identifiers for the same person or object, depending on different aspects of the same thing. Thus there was Dirk-Bro. And Roxy-Mom which sounded a lot like 'foxy mom' and set both him and Rose to laughing both for the insinuation and the truth.

“Well that is a good thing. I know for a fact that you look sharp in a suit, Kan.”

Kanaya smiled at him, her skin glittering under the various curving strands of her hair. “I am always sharp, Dave Strider.”

*

Looking right and knowing it were two different states in Dave's mind. Tonight both descriptors applied. A week of heel-practice later and he was strutting across the slippery floors of the club like a professional on Parisian runways. Other people mixed and mingled around him, some in tiny cocktail dresses, others in bigger and more elaborate outfits like him. 'No Questions' night meant that gender went right out the window. Wear whatever looked good and do not ask questions until you left the doors. Leave the tricky conversations about communicable infection and preference until later. It was a gimmick to draw crowds; but Dave and the rest of them embraced it. Somewhere in the mix Rose walked on Kanaya's arm, fitted into one of his wicked tuxedos from his original LOHAC explorations.

The humans had more fun with this day than trolls did – who were patiently amused by the strict gender binary that was in place on their second home. Even with the cultural disconnect there were a mixture of decorated horns in the throng of pulsing bodies and cloth.

Gliding through carefully Dave kept his clutch firmly in hand and looked around for Bro. Hidden somewhere away in his usual uniform – polo and black slacks, stupid hat with a hat on it and anime shades – he was being absolutely zero fun at all. The one concession he had made was to walk out of the apartment in sensible pumps, a little irony to mix in with his constant ':[ '. If he could keep them on the whole night Dave would pay to have pizzas sent to his house every day of the following week.

Being attached to one of the top DJs in the club and one himself, the staff did not hamper him in his explorations of the back halls. There was a smaller dance floor on the second floor that was blocked off for the event. The club was holding a private event overlaid with the bigger one on the main floor later in the evening. Sticking his head up the top of the stairs, Dave glanced around. The mirrors reflected flashes and glitters of light, and the shadows contrasted harder against the neons and strobes emanating from the bottom floor.

The ambiance in the tucked-away space he has come to is calm and the choice is clear. Instead of returning back into the heat and the motion, this is a place to pause. His skirts whisper and rustle around his ankles, and the anonymity of the dark lets him lean over the banister unobserved.  There is a perfect view of the whole scene – from dirty old perverts at the bar to the beautiful young things with rhinestones at the corners of their eyes. The floor and the railing vibrate with bass-line. Whomever is working is going a little safer with their set. House mix to keep everyone happy interspersed with some top 40 shit. At least Bro actually mixes, and live at that.

Movement in the mirror catches his eye and he turns toward it without leaving his perch. A few others apparently thought this was the right place to be. One of them is Bro, bare other than the heels on his feet (someone is getting a pizza) and his pants hanging around his ankles. The hookup looks a little bit like the Jake guy that Dirk had such an immortal and unfortunate boner for. In the new world, Jake ended up being Jade's not-grandfather. The silver-fox GILF lived a jet-set life and adventures a lot. There are occasionally human-interest articles around him from the globe and Neo Alternia.

This guy bears a passing resemblance to that guy. Same kind of stupid hair, glasses. Major bear – arm and leg hair definitely. Dave observes these points in the same way that he observes the flights of birds and the movements of the seasons.Noted and then forgotten in short order. It is the line of Bro that Dave watches. The hookup has laid himself out on a table, knees hooked over the edge. Bro cozied himself up between the guy's thighs, settled on top of his hips so he has leverage to move. Dave is entranced by the way the light catches the blonde hairs on his legs and his forearms.

As is custom he has a blank expression but Dave knows every one his tells. There is softening around his mouth that is fascinating--gentle slackness where his lips are parted. The rise and fall of his chest is out of cadence from his usual quiet demeanor and the hand grasping his erection works at a moderate pace. It is sexy to watch the gentle bunching of his foreskin, sliding up and over the head of his penis, then back down again. The surface of that gorgeous boner is a little slick, precome smeared over his fingers and the tip. Once in a while, Bro slides his thumb over the head of it, pressing down in a way that would hurt if Dave tried it. The master, in all things. If he were there, and participating he would pay proper attention to that dick. Slide his tongue right along the slit of the head and stare Bro in the eyes while he did it. If he likes it that intense he would make it so intense it would hurt.

Moving would catch their attention, so the role of observer is his. Watching the tension in Bro's hips, he can only imagine what it would be like to slide in and out of him. It would be tight, and so warm. Bro's in excellent shape – touching his body would be like caressing living marble. The snap of his hips against Dave's would be strong. With the abundance of layers he's in, there is no way he's getting his hands anywhere near his own junk, so the daydream is all that he has to roll around in. It's a good one. Eventually he leaves them to finish. If he is going to see Bro's O-face he's going to see it in person.

*

The set that Bro plays is banging. This is to be expected of the man that got him his first turntable and who let him scratch vinyl when he had no business being anywhere near records. It turned out that he was better at electronic mixing; but the fact that Bro had offered was proof of good intentions.

An orange and a red smuppet sat in attendance at the booth, peeking over the edge. All Dave can see is Bro's stupid hat. The lights stuttered and the crowd shivers and shuffles. Given that there are beautiful clothes present there is a hairs-breadth of extra room between bodies. This is workable. He is in the middle of things, as always. There is no other place that fits him as well as the dead-center of a commotion. His crowd-mates are sweet enough to hold their arms out for him in welcome. One troll girl winds her arms around his waist from behind, resting her chin on his bare shoulder. Pointing her horns outward she squeezes gently, swaying from side to side – understanding the music happening around them in a different way from the rest of the revelers.

Pressing her lips against his throat, she hummed, the vibrations of her vocal chords making a nerve along his back tense up. It was sort of the same as when Mutini or one of the other cats purred close to his ear. While the sound was not unpleasant it was definitely evocative to his spine. As suddenly as he was held, he was released, his dance partner melting into the crowd. Looking up to the booth he watched the lights glitter along Bro's shades. The weight of his regard is as warm as a stole.

Staring back, he nodded incrementally. The only reason that he was here was for him. The words would never pass his lips.

“If the hottie in the bird-dress could please report to the DJ booth, the management would appreciate it.” Bro drawled against the mic, a smirk playing over his lips. Dave could feel his voice surrounding him on the sound system of the club.

Not one to come to heel even if he wanted to, Dave lingered a few moments longer in the crowd. Playing at shy and dumb he wound his way up and to the doors. Nodding to the bouncers he ascended the stairs to stand behind Bro. Leaning down where he had carefully slid one of his earphones forward he whisper-yelled against his ear. “There isn't enough room up here for all of my fabulousness and you. Did the manager want me to pick up another set this weekend?”

Turning on his stool to face Dave, Bro slid an arm around his waist and pulled him into his lap. Tulle and satin whispered and shuffled all around him.

“No. I was just tired of seeing you mingling with the masses.”

Prince of Hearts indeed. His stubble scratched a little against Dave's neck and his lips brushed along the shell of his ear.

“Maybe that's my favorite place.”

He adjusted his skirts and legs so that he was draped across Bro's lap and leaning comfortably against him. Bro slid arms to either side of him to attend to his set. Watching his hands made Dave feel hungry. This was one of the few times that they had been in close proximity, and the first time that Bro willingly reached out or touched him.

“You look good in that dress.”

“Red is my color.” The praise lit up little sparks all along his spine and filled his chest with a blossom of warmth.

Glancing down, he saw that Bro had kicked his heels off to one side and his bare toes were stretched out on the cool tile of the booth.

Even if it were just in the realm of footwear, he was winning.

* 

The idea to wait at Bro's apartment is one that comes spontaneously. After hanging out a while in the booth and people watching it is more tedious than entertaining. Meeting up with Kanaya and Rose for a final drink, a cab home was the next logical step. Coiling up in the back he enjoyed the sliding trails of the streetlights in the darkness.

Draping himself over the couch like a haute-couture model with some really fucking sore feet, he waits. The key turns in the latch and Bro heads in, kicking off the pumps at the door and rolling each of his ankles to the sounds of gently popping cartilage. Padding over to stand in front of him, he raises a brow.

“Need something?”

Looking up through his glasses, Dave feels powerful. It was a no questions kind of a night at the club, but now they are home and they can speak. He's wearing a different set of clothes and a different persona with them. It is powerful to be coded female-ish. It is a position of being inherently desired. He wants Bro to desire him. This is a little backward, because Bro actually desires men. Too complicated. Go for it and don't overthink.

“Did you have fun at the club?” The tone in his voice is not quite what he was going for. Playful, yeah, not accusatory.

“Did you have fun watching?”

Of course he saw. There is no way he could not have. Swallowing thickly, Dave chooses silence.

“Can I help you out of your dress?”

“What, not to your liking? I went super high class for you. It's your night to work after all.”

“I don't want to ruin it.”

“Well then.” Coming up to his knees, Dave turned and allowed Bro his back. Even after all that has happened and the time that has passed it feels taboo.

“Mmm.”

Rough hands settle on his shoulders and Dave focuses on his inner sense of time. Milliseconds, seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, decades, millenniums: all time. The travels of his zipper occupy all time. The clocks slow. Everything slows. This moment lasts for the rest of his natural life.

Before the game happened, Dave developed a sort of secret fetish for Bro's hands. They so infrequently landed on him that he tried and memorize the texture of them. There were callouses on his palms from shitty-sword work and the skin on his knuckles was scarred from punching things. Sometimes there were little bits of dried epoxy or glue. Once in a great while there were tiny cuts from sharp metal that he refused to put bandaids on. For moderately deep cuts he would just glue the injury back together and keep working. The hands on him now have a similar topography, but they have been through different seasons. There are other scars, perhaps machinist's wounds. It is not too much of a departure to wonder if those same, strong hands could claw his wings free from his skin and let them stretch out again. They were clever enough that they could fix the broken wing as well.  Delicate pressure just between his shoulder blades and he would be more like himself again: a weapon, a bird, and a boy.

Stepping free from the sea of tulle, Dave faces the object of his fixation in Victoria’s Secret burgundy lace boy-cut panties, garter belt dyed to match, silk thigh-highs and equal standing. Flopping backward onto the couch and splaying his legs out long, he indulges him in a smile. “Fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?”

“Only if there is a timer-triggered trap that stands between you and me.” Bro shuffles a little, watching him in a mixture of discomfort and interest. He is the subject of Dave's long study – the signs are all there.

Nothing is easy between them. Raising a foot and resting it over the half-stock that Bro is packing he softly rotates the ball of his foot. “You should come here and check out the quality of these undies. They are so soft. Word of honor on the subject. And I will have you know it took several tries to get my garters to match.”

The pants-situation becomes markedly rigid. Smirking, Dave slides his knees apart, bracing his heels along the edge of the couch. This is power. Being seen, and being adored purely for existing. Taking a few steps forward, feet silent against the plush of the carpet, Bro settles onto his knees. Sliding his hands along the outsides of Dave's thighs, he works his fingers under the garters. The rough texture of his skin is delicious. “Nice dye job. I can show you some other tricks.”

The desire to slide his hand into Bro's hair and fuck up his careful preening is strong. Dave is stronger. “Maybe. You do have some mad craft skills.”

Bro rests his cheek against the inside of his knee, his stubble scratching the inside of his thigh. “Is this okay? I mean? How do we want this to go down?”

Fuck that hair. Sliding his fingers in past the tacky stiffness of the gel, Dave tries to find the answer that will satisfy all criteria.

“I want... your attention on me. I know this is weird. I know this is weird all over the place, but I have had the most critical hard-on all night and it is your fault and I think that you owe me reparations for it. We are not wussing out and saying this is drunk-fucking or something else stupid. We belong to each other, we were horrible to each other and we have to fix it. I don't even fucking know right now. Here is what I do know. I want you to touch me, and I'm going to touch you and we're going to meet somewhere in the middle.”

The look on his face at having his hair pulled makes Dave harder. The head of his dick is visible under the waistband of his underwear and he likes the look of it. Bro settles in, the knit of his shirt gathering over the swell of his shoulders. Dave can see the pulse against his neck. There is not exactly confirmation but he is pretty sure he can feel his own heartbeat throughout the whole of his erection. Bro's breath sliding hot along the fabric of his slightly damp underwear makes him want to yank his face down to take care of the aching he is responsible for.

Instead of doing that though, he is lingering where he settled, observing sedately with his shitty shades pointed toward Dave’s knees. Reaching down and drawing them off, he stares into his guardian's storybook colored eyes. They look tangerines or fire. Like heat captured in little discs. He belongs with him. Sliding his own shades up and off his nose he carefully folds them and sets them alongside Bro's on a side table. “No amateur shit. You can't kiss with those on your face.”

It is a bit of an unspoken challenge. They have both hidden behind tinted glass forever. The man who is not quite Bro may not be able to meet his eyes.

Only he does.

He meets Dave's gaze and leans up, kissing him.

Dave shoots a hand up, fingers clenching along Bro's throat. His pulse speeds up but he remains close. His lips were a little chapped. Probably from kissing that dude at the club. Maybe from not having chap-stick. He was never very good at covering the essentials.

Sliding his legs around Bro's waist Dave invites him up, keeping his hand still. Mounting the couch, the cushions wiggle and shift under his weight. The comfortable warmth of his thighs support Dave's. All curled up and splayed out, the position could be dangerous or compromising. Instead it is what he wants. Dropping his free hand down to Bro's waistband he frees his poor dick, giving it a welcoming rub as it emerges from his drawers. It feels good to have a hand on his neck and one on his manhood– to show that their stations have changed. Bro does not seem to have any problem with it, leaning in for another kiss without attempting to break either hold. Their mouths meet and it is all wet heat. Shuffling around Dave wiggles until he has Bro's erection pushed up along the center seam of his underwear. The silky fabric is all damp and tight and it seems perfect as an additional toy. Sliding Bro under one of the leg-holes he grinds up. Skin touches his own and he gnaws on his lip. 

There is some awkwardness and Bro grunts. “While this is hot I’ve kind of got a cramp in my thigh. Hang on a sec.”

There is shuffling and Dave is lifted by the hips to lay along the couch properly, Bro still nestled in between his thighs. As he swallows, Dave can feel his Adam’s apple move. It makes him feel a curious amount of satisfaction, retaining control.  

“So now we’re here. What happens?”

“Only the best stuff.” Pressing his hips down, Bro grinds. It feels excellent. Sliding his free hand down, Dave cups it over the warmth of it and rubs as they move. It’s awkward and there are too many legs and it feels fantastic. His thighs are a little sweaty from the warmth of the pair of them packed in together and shifting and his hair is sticking to his forehead a bit. It is hard to decide what is more exciting-- kissing Bro or choking him. Every time he tightens his fingers Bro’s eyes flutter and the flush along his cheeks and chest deepens a little. The shape of his mouth is fascinating. Bro has always been in absolute control of himself; seeing him give a little bit of that rigidity up is electric.  Wiggling and pressing up and against Bro he tightens his hand against Bro’s throat, fingers twitching tighter the closer he feels to coming.

The pacing of his hips stutters and Dave can feel Bro’s heart thundering against his fingertips. Smiling and pressing up harder he lets himself go against his abs and feels Bro’s breath catch as he tenses up shortly thereafter. He’s gorgeous and he wants to rewind the moment three more times so he can memorize the little scrunch of his eyes that is a close cousin to pain as he gives over to pleasure. Releasing his throat Dave turns into a cuddle-horror, pulling Bro down and against his chest, nuzzling into his previously gel-stiffened hair. The weight of him on his chest feels good -- like a blanket made out of muscles. They are unfortunately sticky. This is a problem. Thunking his heel into Bro’s butt-cheek, he kisses his temple.

“That was awesome. But there is jizz on my super cute undies.”

“Just a sec.”  Bro winds his arms tighter around his waist. Dave curls back in response, acknowledging the request for closeness. Running his fingers gently along the line of scar-tissue on Bro’s neck, he kissed the crown of his head.

“We went through some shit, huh?”

The movement of Bro’s nose against his throat is the answer given.

He has his own scars. The long line through his torso, various killing wounds from the pile of his lifetimes. Bro’s fingers knead in little circles along the small of his back.

“Went through some shit and we won.”

“We did.”

Laying back and watching the ceiling Dave scratched his nails through the short hair at the nape of Bro’s neck. Eventually, he eases up and stands, stretching himself out long. Dave wants to summon him back through sheer force of will. Pulling his shirt off and giving Dave a little quirk of a smile.

Showers are had in quick succession and while Bro is toweling off Dave orders out for pizza. He will not be providing it as often as he might have had Bro been able to deal with the heels he wore to the club, but he can feed them that evening. Chewing on a piece of pepperoni and lounging on the couch in one of Bro’s long t-shirts and nothing else he feels contentment. If he can say nothing else for Bro, the man looks excellent in just a towel. Walking back out to him he leans down to steal a bite of Dave’s pizza and look at him. The towel drops and hits the floor.

“I have a proposition.”

“Propose it.”

“I want you to fuck me. I want to have a hand on your throat while you’re doing it.”

His brain just kind of stutters. Bro smiles, confidant, nude, and powerful. Reaching into a side-drawer he produces a condom and lube. Well then. The means to the end have arrived, the question remains whether or not Dave is comfortable with doing it. Comfort is a thing that belongs to other families and individuals. Getting up and grinning he takes the condom and sets the lube to one side.

“Let’s do it. Get yourself comfortable.”

Bro settles onto the couch, knees out in the most lewd and languid gesture ever. It makes Dave want to push him down and pretend like they are in their own special porno. Maybe if this turns into a recurrent thing they can film it. Holding his hands out, Bro draws him in close. Curious about what happens next, Dave is all suppressed groans when Bro slides his mouth down and swallows him. He has never been harder in his adult life. Curling his hands into Bro’s hair he bites his own lip to stay quiet. The impulse is a strange one -- no one will hear them. Despite that, control has been a part of their lives for so long that it is difficult to relinquish now. Popping off of his dick with a pleased little smile, Bro sets about getting himself ready for some epic-buttfuckery. Dave’s never really seen that part of things in person -- porn glazes it and it is not the sexiest thing he can think of. However, the fact that Bro is getting ready to have him in his body is kind of sexy.

Prepared and in a receptive state of mind Bro slides himself to the edge of the couch, beckoning Dave down. Coming to meet him, Dave smiles. “Aight. So, we’re going to do this and it is going down. It’s going to be kind of like a porn only-”

The Hand of God lands on his throat and his words just cut. Bro knows just the right way to touch, fingers pressed in enough to prevent speech and easy breathing; but not enough to make him feel faint. His grip relaxes as Dave settles in between his legs, positioning himself to press into Bro. Smoothing his hands along Bro’s thighs, the dusting of blonde hair provides pleasant texture. The warmth coupled with the textural difference just heightens the moment. Cozied up against Bro’s abs his cock is settled resplendent, saluting Dave as he presses in. It takes a little bit of work, a little push, rest, and then further. Throughout the whole of it Bro watches him, taking measured breaths even while inviting Dave closer to the center of him. Bro is the toughest person that Dave has ever met. Even still, he does not want to rush this. Doubtless Bro could take anything that he would give him, but it is important to do this right.

Settled fully inside of him, Dave sneaks a kiss, feeling the fingers on his throat tighten. Experimentally he tries a gentle thrust and is rewarded with a soft hum of encouragement. It is so tight, and so warm and sex is probably the best. If simply for moments like this. Finding a tempo that is aggressive without being painful Dave moves. Settling onto his knees at the edge of the couch with Bro coiled around his waist and holding his throat they find a mutually agreeable tempo.

Feeling a tiny bit vindictive, Dave leaves Bro’s dick alone, watching it shift minutely as they move. Any attempts to touch it he swats away, only to have the pressure on his throat increase. The ambient sounds of the apartment start to fade away, replaced by a ringing buzz in his ears. His heart pounds insistently in his ears and the urgency to breathe well couples in with his urgency to get off. Snapping his hips harder, he leans into Bro, feeling the rough texture of his thumb biting in just under his jaw.

When it seems like the pressure on his throat will turn maddening and the need to breathe is more important than the need to move his hips, Bro lets go. Leaning up to kiss him briefly he smiles. “I want to move. This is kind of hurting my hip. Hold up.” Easing out Dave gives him a hand turning over. The new position is enticing. Ass turned up toward him and the line of his spine long and exposed, Bro peeks over his shoulder.

“You’ve got this. Though if you keep cockblocking me you are going to regret it.”

The last sends a shiver down Dave’s spine. Whenever Bro told him that he would regret something, he really, truly did. Grasping his hips, Dave pushed back in and felt a sort of feral pleasure at hearing Bro grunt. Draping himself forward to wrap his hands around Bro’s throat he set to a pounding cadence, feeling his pleasure rise sharply. Fucker. Even if he threatened, Dave could do something about it. In the corner of his eye Dave watched Bro slide a hand between his legs and let it go without comment.

They never quite got around to the condom part of the equation. Generally Bro is pretty hyper-attentive about sanitation and small details so Dave trusts that he has a clean bill of health. Anyway, this is a briefly passing thought. Winding his hands tighter around Bro’s throat he pushes in punishingly, watching him grip his dick tighter in response.  

Pulling out just before coming he pressed himself up and between the generous firmness of Bro’s cheeks, letting himself go in a gorgeous semen-abstract along his butt. Fuck. Yes.

Keeping a hand around Bro’s throat he dropped his other one down to hold on as well and stroke him off. Getting him there Dave feels wobbly, tired, and over-stimulated. Gently thwapping Bro’s elbow so that he flopped down onto a side, Dave spooned up around his back like a limpet. The mess could get taken care of in a second. That was some intense and slightly scary shit. Resting a hand over the thump of his heart trapped in his chest, Dave curled his fingers so that his nails caught just slightly against his skin.

“I know we’re kind of you know... allergic to talking... but how are you?”

Turning around and pulling one of Dave’s legs over his hip, Bro smoothed a hand up and onto the small of his back.

“Sated. You?”

“Post orgasm-y. Confused. Happy. I think I’ll wear dresses like that more often if they encourage this sort of behavior.”

“Hmm.”

Bro’s stillness had always been a problem. In moments like this where he was so quiet and still Dave felt like he ought to scream or talk to fill the silence. It was difficult to meet in the middle.

“So. Uhm.”

“That was really hot. I liked you fucking me. And I liked it when you choked me. I am proud of you for taking that kind of control. It takes a lot of balls to hold someone’s life in your hand. It was masterful.”  Catching Dave, Bro pulled him in close. Tucked up against the warmth of him, all of the organic, messy, beautiful life, Dave felt safe. This was good. Wrapping his arms tight around Bro’s shoulders and burrowing, he nodded.

\---

_Why can't you want me like the other boys do?_

_They stare at me while I stare at you_

_Why can't I keep you safe as my own?_

_One moment I have you the next you are gone_

_'Crave You'_ – Flight Facilities

 


End file.
